


Seven Falling Stars

by RoseoftheBrightSea



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Feanorian week, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-08 10:19:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10384473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseoftheBrightSea/pseuds/RoseoftheBrightSea
Summary: My submission to the Feanorian Week.





	1. Day One: Maedhros

**Author's Note:**

> Super excited to be writing this. Please let me know what you think!

“How dare you?” Caranthir was red-faced and shaking with anger as he bursted into his brother’s solace. Celergorm, Curufin, and Amras trailed silently behind him, though the anger was evident their faces, as well.

Maedhros silently watched as his brothers filled the room, painfully aware of Maglor’s absence. His brother, his confidant was still in the lowlands, and had little interest in watching their uncle’s ascension to the throne of the Noldor. Fingon was his only ally close-by, but somehow, Maedhros thought it unwise to hold council with his brothers and cousin.

“You throw us aside for them?” Caranthir continued. “If you detested kingship so much, then why not pass the responsibility on to Makalaurë?Adar would be ashamed of you. To put aside your own kin for—”

“For the oath, háno,” Maedhros whispered softly, but it was enough to silence the others.

Was that true? Maedhros was not sure. Ever since Alqualondë, he had doubted whether or not Fëanor was capable of properly leading their people. If the father did not have the strength to rule, what hope could the sons have? But the House of Fingolfin was not bound to any oath. They could rule without hesitation, and Maedhros knew the same could not be said for his own house.

Maedhros rose from his seat to place a hand on Caranthir’s shoulder. He almost raised his right arm before remembering his phantom hand, but he caught himself and lightly squeezed Caranthir’s shoulder with his left. “I have not put you aside. But for Adar’s sake, we cannot accept kingship.”

Amras was not placated by his brother’s soft words and in a burst of anger, swept an arm across Maedhros’s table, knocking glass and paper to the ground. “There is no excuse for your cowardice. If Adar could hold the kingship and his oath—”

“He could not. Elsewise he would live still.” Maedhros voice rang like iron, firm and strong, but he would not meet his brother’s eyes. The anger burning in Curufin’s eyes pained Maedhros in their resemblance to Fëanor’s. The silver-blue eyes of Finwë and Fëanor had only passed down to two of the latter’s sons, the first and fifth born. The eyes of kings, Fëanor had once said.

 _Does Nolofinwë not have the same eyes, Adar?_ Maedhros thought. All of Fingolfin’s line, save Turgon, had inherited the silver-blue irises. _All would make better kings than me._

“Get out,” Maedhros ordered as Caranthir opened his mouth again. “Get out. You may have words with me this evening, but for now let me rest.”

However angry they were with him, his torment at Thangorodrim was ever-present in their minds. Celegorm’s fist clenched by his side and for a moment, Maedhros thought he would pursue the issue. Instead, he pulled on an overly cheerful grin and bowed deeply.

“Our dear háno seems to be in a foul mood. We must allow him his beauty rest.” Celegorm turned, his eyes and smile cruel. “Manwë knows he needs it.”

The words stung more than Maedhros cared to admit. Even Caranthir’s expression softened as Celegorm’s words cut through the air. Maedhros had never been vain, but the scars upon his face and the mutilations to his body were hard to look upon. Once, he was called beautiful, but that felt so long ago. Now, whenever he caught his reflection in the mirror, he was met with shriveled flesh and a useless gray eye.

As soon as his brothers left, Maedhros’s anger made itself known. Whatever damage Amras had done to the table could not compare to that which Maedhros inflicted upon it. By the time his energy left him, the table was fit for kindling and little else.

His brother’s anger with Maedhros’s abdication was justified. He had offered the kingship to Fingolfin without holding council with the other sons of Fëanor, writing away their birthright in a single action. Maglor might have made a good king, and the Valar knew how his brothers lusted for the throne, but each time Maedhros thought of his father’s rule as king, he was content in his decision.

No king should abandon his people. No king should turn his blade against his own people. No descendant of Fëanor could claim themselves innocent of such deeds. In Alqualondë, Maedhros almost opened Finrod’s throat as the son of Finarfin attempted to protect a Teleri cousin. It was a mistake, but nothing Maedhros could do would rid him of that guilt.

Then mockery of Maedhros’s scars, though, was uncalled for. It was a cruel jape on Celegorm’s part, and crueler since Maedhros thought it true. He had taken his beauty for granted and so had not expected its loss to hurt so deeply. In his current state, he could no longer crawl into Fingon’s bed, nor would he smile sweetly in the hopes of lighting up Fingon’s desires.

A pain shot through Maedhros’s phantom hand. He clutched at the air, as if to massage the missing flesh. Nerdanel’s name proved harsh in the end. Too harsh.

Tears slid down Maedhros’s cheeks and he rubbed them angrily away. “I am a disappointment in every way,” he whispered. Both Fëanor’s and Nerdanel’s expectations of him had proven misplaced. He laughed bitterly. “I am sorry.”


	2. Day Two: Maglor

“Ada! Ada, come quick!” Elros and Elrond grinned wildly as they tugged on Maglor’s hands, pulling him through the tall grass towards the waves. Maglor tried to keep his smile soft and humble, but the twins had only recently taken to calling him ada and his heart still swelled at the word.

“The ocean is not going anywhere,” Maglor tried to explain, but nothing would calm the anxious twins. They had never seen the northern beaches before, only the rocky shores that the Haven was built upon, and Maglor was thrilled to see their excitement. The satchel around his shoulder was heavy with blankets and food for when the twins grew cold and tired.

As soon as they cleared the high grass, Elrond tugged off his sandals and abandoned them by the path’s entrance. Elros followed suit and chased his brother across the sand, laughing and waving at Maglor as they rushed by. Maglor waved back, chuckling as Elrond suddenly turned around and tackled Elros to the ground. Their squeals of laughter carried on the wind.

Out of sight, but nearby, a retinue of guards stood by. Maedhros insisted when they left that a handful of guards accompany them, in case any Sindar wandered into the region and saw fit to make themselves heroes. Maglor begrudgingly accepted. Besides, it was unwise to disagree with Maedhros, particularly while he was in one of his moods and the twins did not seem to mind the guards’ presence.

The twins were venturing closer and closer to water’s edge. “Not too far,” Maglor called. The twins waved back in response, their impish smiles far from reassuring.

Gulls flew overhead, swooping down on occasion to catch a fish and carry it off to their nests. Maglor eyed them carefully, aware that his concerns for Elwing’s presence amongst the flock was unjustified. She aboard the Vingilótë, sailing West.

“Ada, come join us!” Elrond called. Maglor did not have the heart to deny such a simple request, and so he unlaced his sandals and left them by the boys’.

Despite the warm sun, the water was cold and curled Maglor’s toes as he entered it. Maglor did not fail to notice the sly smiles on the twins’ faces, but he played ignorant. “My, what a nice day. Although it’d be a shame to get my hair wet.”

“Oh, yes, Ada,” Elros agreed. The twins had not noticed Maglor’s hair’s penchant for frizziness when touched by salt water and they found it wildly entertaining. “I completely agree.”

Elros’s own hair was soaking wet. As Maglor turned to look at Elrond, he suddenly felt the force of his young ward rushing against his back. When Elros lunged for his legs, Maglor pretended to stagger and fall dramatically into the ocean. The boys giggled as they pranced in the water.

“Did we surprise you?” Elrond asked with unbounded excitement. “Did we?”

“Aye, you did,” Maglor said as he brushed a long strand of hair out of his eyes. “However--”

Maglor stood suddenly and picked Elrond up, tossing him a few feet in the air. Elros squealed as he tried to escape, but Maglor caught him and tossed him in the opposite direction. Maglor’s revenge soon turned into a game of joyous screams and splashes.

“Again!” Elros begged, having already been propelled into the air over a dozen times. Maglor grimaced. An old injury from Doriath flared up in his shoulder, making the game painful for him.

“Only once more,” Maglor explained. “Then I need to rest.”

Elros pouted, but agreed with a solemn nod. Elrond begged for one more turn, too, and Maglor accepted on the same conditions. He was surprised when the twins followed him out of the water and curled up in blankets besides him on the sand.

“Can you tell us a story?” Elros asked.

Maglor knew a great many stories. Some were stories of monsters, others of love, but his favorite were the ones of places. Of high trees that glittered in the wind and smooth seas that knew no storms. Such places were lost to him, but the Valar willing, one day Elrond and Elros might be given the privilege of sailing West and dwelling alongside their father’s kin. Maglor was not strong enough to tell them stories of people. Those sorts of stories only brought back bitter memories and a shame so overwhelming that it threatened to drown him.

“Tell us about where you learned to sing!” Elrond exclaimed. That was a story Maglor felt no sorrow in, and so he happily indulged the twins.

“I learned the art of song from my Ammë, in a sense, though she was not blessed with much talent.” Nerdanel was not a strong singer, but she had always enjoyed the flutes and lyres at festivals, always humming along while Fëanor stood stone-faced. “She used to sing to me in my cradle and from the time I was able to speak, it is said that I sang back to her. When I was younger than you, she carved me my first lyre. It was a beautiful thing, a dark wood with vines of silver and strings that sung out like birds.”

“Do you still have it? Can I see it?” Elros interrupted.

Maglor smiled sadly and shook his head. “I’m afraid I do not. I left it behind at my Ammë’s home and is still there with her, I should think.”

“Oh,” Elros said thoughtfully, resting his head against his brother’s shoulder. “Perhaps she is practicing on it and getting better?”

Maglor chuckled sadly at the thought. “Aye, little one, perhaps she is.”


	3. Day Three: Celegorm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cartography! I headcanon elves having a very intuitive understanding of space, so poor Tyelko's art goes unappreciated.
> 
> (Quenya names used)

Tyelko was accustomed to being alone. From the time he could walk, he would venture out on his own, always in the opposite direction of his father’s forge and his mother’s workbench. This did not change with age, however much Fëanor and Nerdanel may have wished it otherwise. Maitimo and Makalaurë, though not of remarkable skill, would sit patiently and practice their crafts. Even Caranstir, only just able to stand on his chubby legs, was taking an interest in their father’s fires. Only Tyelkormo, stubborn and solemn, refused the arts of his parents.

The result of this was a constant, bone-aching loneliness. Tyelko could not stomach the look of disappointment in Fëanor’s eyes, nor Nerdanel’s muffles sighs, and so once his lessons ended, he would roam the forests surrounding Tirion. He taught himself the arts that his parents would never come to know—the language of the trees rather than of jewels, the curve of a river rather than a sculpture.

Soon, Tyelko began calculating the distances between his travels. He would carefully track the snaking path of a river and sketch it down on vellum, relating it to the forest’s edge. He worked tirelessly to put down Calacirya on the scroll, remapping and redrawing night after night until it approached perfection. It was never perfect, for there was always more to put onto parchment, but alas Tyelko felt as if he had found an art worthy of competing in his parents’ eyes with Maitimo’s delicate jewelry and Makalaurë’s golden flutes and lyres, or even Caranstir’s poorly designed lumps of iron—toys, they were called.

After a year of dedication to his secret craft, Tyelko brought it within the stone walls of Finwë’s palace, his hands shaking all the while. Maitimo was to present a silver circlet to their grandsire, made by his own hand, but Tyelko thought his own gift better. It was not some silly jewelry, but a piece of the King’s kingdom. It would be better—it had to be.

Tyelko had watched, bouncing in place, as Maitimo bowed lowly and presented the ornate trinket. Finwë smiled fondly at the boy and applauded his skill, speaking of how proud he made him. Even the line of Indis smiled in approval at Maitimo’s gift, though Fëanor had long since taught his sons to not seek their cousins’ and uncles’ approval.

Before Finwë could place Maitimo’s circlet on his brow, Tyelko rushed forward and bowed lowly, just as his brother had. “I have a gift, as well,” he cried out. He could feel the stares upon his back, but said nothing of it. “To honor the High King of the Noldor.”

“What is it, little one?” Finwë asked with great patience.

“A—” Tyelko paused and thought of what to call it. “A drawing of your kingdom, your grace. Drawn to scale and… To show the complexity of the land.”

He unfurled his work and held it up so that his family might see. Fëanor took a step forward, his lips pursed in thought as they always were when critiquing. “It is flat?”

Tyelko’s sketch of the land did not have the vivid color found in most Noldor paintings, nor their inclusion of lively and familiar scenes. It was precise, but not endearing.

Finwë smiled patiently. “You show great talent, Tyelkormo. With proper training, you may become a great painter.”

“It is not a painting!” Tyelko protested. His eyes stung with tears, but he would not let them fall. Never mind Nerdanel’s pitying looks, nor Maitimo’s and Makalaurë’s puzzled glances. Only Findekáno and Turukáno, the spoiled sons of Nolofinwë, was expressing his amusement outright, snickering into his mother’s shirts while Nolofinwë tried to quiet them. “It is to show where things are!”

“But we know where things are, Tyelko?” Fëanor did not intend cruelty with his words, but it was there all the same. Of course, they would not understand. His art was lost on them, as was he.

Tyelko burst from the halls without responding to his father’s question. From behind him, he could hear Nerdanel calling him back, but he would not listen. He ran until he could not hear his mother’s voice, the vellum scroll crinkling in his hand all the while.

By the time he stopped running, his eyes hurt from so many silent tears. He let out an anguished howl and threw his scroll down, stomping away from his failure with great indignity. It was already dark, but the night did not bother Tyelko. It was easier to hide in the night—he was a shadow to his father’s light, but a night, the shadow ruled without fear.

His mind’s exhaustion soon wore a toile on his body, and Tyelko stopped to rest under an aspen that overlooked the city. The anger in his blood did not leave him, but as he watched the hum of the city, his eyes began to flutter closed. Soon the boy was asleep.

When he awoke again, a bright golden head was bobbing toward him. Tyelko wondered for an instant why a Vanya was so far from Taniquetil, before realizing it was Indis’s son, Arafinwë. Tyelko did not know Arafinwë well, for Finwë’s youngest son had gone to dwell with the Teleri in Alqualondë before Tyelko’s birth and returned to Tirion infrequently. He was a strange man, tall, beautiful, but without pride. Fëanor spoke rarely of this one.

He had not been at Finwë’s court, unlike the line of Nolofinwë, but Tyelko wondered if the others had told him. Tyelko did not think that Arafinwë had a cruel face, but he had been wrong before in such matters.

“Do you remember me?” Arafinwë asked patiently. He had stopped several paces before Tyelko, as if to keep from scaring him away. “I am—”

“I know who you are,” Tyelko interrupted. “What do you want?”

“I would be honored to see your design,” Arafinwë said with a humble smile. “Nolofinwë attempted to describe it to me, but I am afraid he did not do your work justice.”

Tyelko eyed the scroll only an arm’s length away from where his uncle stood. The wind was quiet that day and had not blown it away, much to Tyelko’s chagrin. Arafinwë caught sight of his nephew’s line of sight and took notice of the crinkled vellum.

“May I?”

Tyelko scoffed and turned his head so that the half-brother of Fëanor would not take notice of his eyes and how they already turned red. “You may do as you wish.”

The rustling indicated that Arafinwë had turned to pick up Tyelko’s creation. Silence engulfed the boy. Arafinwë did not laugh like Nolofinwë’s sons, but without facing him, Tyelko could not tell if there was a look of pity upon his face.

“This is genius,” Arafinwë whispered. Tyelko did not respond immediately, and so the prince continued. “You are scarcely older than my Findaráto, but you have already taught yourself this?”

Tyelko nodded warily. “Aye.”

“The art of cartography is not well appreciated amongst the Noldor, I am afraid, but the Teleri are developing it well. The sail along the coast of Aman so that they might map it. A map is what you have created, Tyelko, and a fine one at that.”

Tyelko turned to see if his half-uncle was mocking him, but the brow furrowed in concentration told him of its sincerity. He sat on the ground, still some distance from Tyelko, and traced the air above the lines. “How did you determine the distance?”

“I used a stick and rope,” Tyelko said. “Some of it might be wrong.”

“Perhaps, but you should not let that dishearten you. I have been studying this art with the Teleri for some time and I have still yet to master it.” Arafinwë’s face broke out into a wide smile. “Could you show me your tools?”

“My… my rope?” Tyelko asked.

“I think there is much I could learn from you.” Arafinwë said it as if there were no shame in having yet to master an art. “I should like to help you, too, if I may.”

Tyelko studied his uncle for a long moment. He was a strange man, to be sure, but Tyelko was not certain if strange were truly so bad.


	4. Day Four: Caranthir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Deals with Caranthir's death.

The world around him was a blur of bloody shadows. Even sound was distorted, echoing within itself until it sounded miles away. Caranthir did not know where his brothers were, did not know if they had succeeded in obtaining the Silmarils, and suspected he never would. There was too much red for hope.

“You silly, silly man, Carnë,” a voice whispered. It was soft and sweet and hurt Caranthir’s heart to hear. Only one voice could call him that without earning his ire, but its owner no longer sang outside of Mandos. “What have you done?”

“Melin…” He could not see her, but he could feel her presence. Caranthir could feel her leaning over him, cupping his face in her hands, but he could only see the red of flames and blood. “Please…”

He did not know what he wanted from his wife. To see her? For her to rescue him? There was no hope of either, he knew, but he did not want to be alone.

“You have lost so much and taken more, melin. It is enough.” Caranthir could almost feel her push his hair aside. “Enough, Caranstir.”

“N-no,” Caranthir stuttered. “The Silmarils, I must—”

“It is not your responsibility anymore. If you do not let it go, what will come of it? How many more must die at your hands, Caranstir?”

Caranstir closed his eyes as a sharp pain traveled through his chest. The pain was overwhelming, but Caranthir could not give into it just yet. He did not want to part to the Halls of Mandos without knowing whether or not the carnage had been justified, however unlikely that was.

“I do not know,” he whispered. “I have lost count.”

It was their fault, though. The Sindar had stolen his father’s jewel and kept it hidden within their forest. The sons of Fëanor had asked for it back with soft words, only claiming what was justly theirs. When Dior refused them, he brought doom down upon himself.

Was that true? Caranthir’s hatred towards Luthien’s son knew no bounds, but he bore no ill will to Dior’s people. They had been given no choice in whether or not to surrender the Silmarils.

“They should have revolted,” Caranthir stuttered. His mouth was filling with hot red blood, making it hard to speak. “Taken the jewel from their king.”

“What people would do that?” His wife demanded. “Who would sell out their king for strangers covered in their kin’s blood?”

“I—”

“You once looked down on the cowardice of others. Now you ask it of them?”

He could almost see her face. The wise amber eyes he had once stared into for hours on end, the curve of a proud lip he used to trace. Gone. Taken by ice and snow after he ordered her to stay behind in Aman. Of course she would not listen. Caranthir had bellowed in anger as Finrod told him of her demise, and oh how he had blamed his cousins for it. Curufin and Amras held him back as he had tried to draw his sword on Finrod and Aredhel.

“Come with me and make your amends to those you’ve harmed.”

Caranthir’s body felt weightless as he answered. “Aye, melin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is based off of a headcanon of mine that Caranthir refused to take his wife with him on the Teleri ships, in an attempt to keep her safe. She refuted him and crossed the Helcaraxë, but drowned trying to save Elenwë.

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. If you're so inclined, I have a [Tumblr](https://pearl-of-lys.tumblr.com/) so if you wanna come over and chat headcanons or anything, I'd love it.


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